web analytics

Category: Psychology

Categories
Psychology Racial right

Responding

to Robert

Le Suicidé by Manet (ca. 1877-1891).

This morning, Robert commented on this site. I empathise with him because I feel the same way: Kali Yuga is killing the spirit of noble men, while all we see around us is racial betrayal and the cult of ugliness (the antithesis of the benign world in Germany glimpsed in the Beethoven film I recently promoted). Since I, too, especially in the mornings when I wake up, find myself in a state of anxious despair that eats away at my soul, I understand Robert.

But we know the medicine.

Robert: Have you read the featured article carefully?

The solution to our dilemma lies in forming a brotherhood of the sacred words. That obviously implies that some of us priests live together. I find it pathological that we live so far apart. If we lived together, it would be very easy to plan the content of the next podcast: it would be a daily show, almost every day of the year, in which two or three priests would sit around a round table to discuss current affairs (I mentioned something about this in my post on 17 December).

Precisely because that podcast would show how folk like Nick Fuentes are stuck in the middle of the Rubicon, with us talking on solid ground on the other side of the river, it would be the most radical audio-visual podcast of all the racialist forums, without comparison!

I don’t know if you’ve read my article on depression. Depression is hatred/anger repressed due to the norms of stupid society, whether it be to comply with the fourth Judeo-Christian commandment, or in our case, because we are atomised due to the idiotic behaviour of “white nationalists” who don’t live under the same roof to create the proper Männerbund.

But simply living together wouldn’t be enough to cure us of depression. What cures us is open, inflammatory, blatant and public genocidal hatred: what we would do daily in the podcasts!

Of course, that would be unnecessary if there were already a revolution, at least in a Western country: we would simply go there to fight, even if we died in the fray. But there is no revolution because all Aryan men, including white nationalists, share ethnosuicidal Christian ethics (as we saw recently when discussing Richard Spencer’s recent interview with Fuentes).

It is Christian ethics that we must first break down so that Aryan men dare to do something substantial in the real world (although, for the moment, only at the podcast level). Being atomised will only continue to destroy our spirit. Alas, some make these podcasts in the wrong country, like our friends Joseph Walsh and Chris Gibbons, who are serving years in prison in the UK due to their Black Wolf Radio.

If Europeans took their priestly vows (cf. the featured article once again), they could come to a country where it would be possible to have an audio-visual equivalent of Black Wolf Radio without running afoul of European, Canadian or Australian laws, whose governments seem intent on eradicating white populations (that also happens in the US, but at least they have the First Amendment there).

While you take your vows, as I suggested today, read William Pierce’s novel. It will immediately lift you out of your depression. But it will return after a day when you finish it, because there are no men like that in the West. Racialists are all like those women I was talking about recently (the refugee ladies during the Battle of Blackwater). They are so feminised that they are waiting for a hero on a white horse to come and rescue them, instead of being that hero themselves.

This sheds light on my post about the Eroica Symphony and why it made me cry: those were times when the ideals of the French Revolution inspired Beethoven, although, as we see in the film, he later tore up the page, very angry, on which he dedicated the symphony to Napoleon when he crowned himself emperor.

Understanding that music and getting out of depression are two sides of the same coin (Beethoven himself harboured suicidal ideation before composing the Eroica). Regarding us, only by living together will it be possible to have a kind of Spartan Syssitia that lifts our spirits. (The alternative is becoming prey to the noonday demons and ending up like the guy in Manet’s painting.)

Categories
Psychology Racial right Real men

Gross misnomer

Considering that I discovered white nationalism when I was already half a century old, and that before I used to read, think and write about the psychological damage my parents caused to their first three children (a taboo subject—besides me, what other autobiographer does the visitor to this site know?), from time to time I obviously make psychological forays into the subject of The West’s Darkest Hour.

Over the last few days, I have been reviewing my old diaries and confirmed something I already knew.

What breaks the spirit is precisely what Thomas said yesterday in the comments section of this site: the feminised pettiness of virtually all contemporary racialists (in addition, of course, to normie males).

The very recent conversation between Richard Spencer and Nick Fuentes, the thread where Thomas commented, exemplifies this. But we could say the same about the rest of the American white nationalism forums (I’m not counting Europe because if you dare to speak there, they put you in jail).

Privately, I told Thomas that white nationalists were responsible for my horrible depression and anxiety that eat away at my soul after I lost my home this year.

Let me explain.

A few years ago, a young white man contacted me because he was desperate for fascist action in the real world. I told him that it wasn’t possible at the moment (look at what the American government did to the protesters in Charlottesville), and that he should prepare for the collapse by watching Chris Martenson’s YouTube videos on energy devolution.

But that wasn’t what this young Aryan, with all the hormones of his youth, wanted. He wanted action in the real world!

I would like to give him a better answer belatedly.

Europeans like Thomas and I are waiting for the dollar to collapse so we can buy a house in Mexico (the European Thought Police can’t molest us here) and form a kind of ecclesia for the priests of the sacred words (“We also need temples, enclosures for re-connection, as I call them”—Manu).

It’s true that the important thing is to reproduce (women), but until we take power the feminist, ethno-suicidal laws will be against forming healthy families.

The idea, so that celibate priests don’t get depressed while waiting for the revolution, is to have rabid podcasts where we can vent all our repressed hatred—something far more virulent and Nazi than the podcasts of Fuentes and company, as the goal would be to galvanise Aryan men to behave like the heroes of Pierce’s novel!

Everything else is utterly depressing, crushing to our spirit! Everything else, as I replied to Thomas yesterday, is behaving like the refugee ladies during the Battle of Blackwater!

White nationalists aren’t real men. We are. And if we don’t fight, it’s because there aren’t enough revolutionaries yet. There is not even talk of a future revolution in the forums of the American racial right. If I remember correctly, when Greg Johnson published some articles promoting Harold Covington’s revolutionary novels, Johnson’s then sponsor at TOQ Online (was it Sam Dickson?) freaked out. And that was just Covington’s fiction!

It needs to be repeated ad nauseam: White nationalism is a gross misnomer because they are really de facto conservatives, not the warriors and heroes who truly want to form a new nation so that white families, like the one above, can flourish once again.

Categories
Kali Yuga Psychology Real men

Depression

Many years ago, I think it was 2007, before I discovered the white nationalist forums that split my intellectual life in twain, I used to interact with Alice Miller fans (before 2010, I dedicated myself body and soul to writing about the devastating effects of parental abuse on children). A Dutchman told me that my depression stemmed from unprocessed pain from my past and quoted Miller.

His explanation seemed misguided and simplistic, since it was obvious that the lack of a degree, and consequently a job (in the Third World it’s very difficult to prosper without a university degree, unless you inherit a family business), was what was bothering me.

Now I’m still unemployed, but at least I’ve finally understood not only what happened in my family, which took me decades to write about. (Unlike a novel, I had to wait until both my parents died, and my only non-traitorous sister also died, to finish writing the last page.) At the same time, I understood another depressing factor: the reason for the darkest hour in the West, thanks to the authors who enlightened me, whose texts can be read on this site.

Enlightenment on matters of family tragedy, or on the situation of white man’s ethno-suicide, represents only a couple of steps toward recovering one’s spirits. This morning I was answering an email from a visitor to this blog, in which I said that what we need is a kind of Spartan syssitia in which, through daily podcasts, we communicate with young Aryans in a way that is infinitely better than what Nick Fuentes does, because we are the National Socialists of the 21st century.

It seems absurd to me that those of us who want to do something effective in the world aren’t at least living on the same block to eat the three meals together, as the Spartan soldiers did. It’s impossible to recover our spirits if we don’t get together!

It’s true that a syssitia like the one I’m proposing is missing something fundamental. In Sparta, every man was expected to marry and procreate (incidentally, even after marriage the soldier ate with other soldiers to solidify the Männerbund). But given that the laws and culture of recent decades have completely corrupted women, for the moment what I propose is simply to meet like those Parisian salons before the Revolution. And although we couldn’t say anything illegal on the podcast, we would prepare young people to think in a revolutionary way. Women would come later: when, thanks to the Revolution and the laws of the Aryan state, we have already transvalued values.

Lately, I’ve been reposting images like this on X:

What’s hard for young people is waking up to the fact that this prize, marriage to a real woman—unlike the Gomorrahite freaks of today—could only be accomplished after the Revolution. Before then, it is impossible given the fiercely ethno-suicidal nature of Western culture and its laws against us. But the first step, I insist, is for this vanguard of priests of the sacred words to live under the same roof, or on the same block, to share meals and transmit our radical message to the dispossessed youth.

It will be impossible to get depressed under those conditions…

Categories
Psychology War!

Mercouris

Regarding the war in Ukraine, the podcaster who provides the most detailed and insightful information I know is Alexander Mercouris.

In his video today, recorded with an annoying background hum because Mercouris isn’t at his London home but in a Scottish hotel, in five minutes, starting here, Mercouris brilliantly explains the malignant narcissism currently afflicting Western governments.

This malignant narcissism reminds me of what I’ve written on this blog about Marco’s case: a psychotic man I spoke with again yesterday (and also with his alarmed cousin, who no longer wants to see the madman Marco).

It seems clear to me that individual psychoses, and social psychoses—like what these Europeans believe is happening in Ukraine—are identical. What distinguishes an individual psycho from mass psychosis is simply that, since in the latter millions share the same psychosis, it’s not obvious that they’re insane.

It suits me that these Westerners are crazy because, as the ancient Greeks said, those whom the Gods wish to destroy they first drive mad. And the only chance for us to take power is if these now invincible governments go crazier than shithouse rats.

Categories
Nick Fuentes Psychohistory Psychology

Jews in panic

Several WN pundits are feeling very envious that Nick Fuentes is the voice that has caused a crisis in the Republican party, to the point that a schism is beginning to appear among conservatives: Israel first or the US?

When I started posting a series about Game of Thrones years ago, everyone ignored me on this site. What I was trying to figure out was the reason for the show’s popularity. In my opinion, it was because, despite the Jewish directors, there were many shots that artistically showcased not only Aryan beauty, but also the beauty of an idealized medieval Aryan world based on fantasy novels: just what the white race needs but with NS directors.

Now we have the same phenomenon among very young people who follow Fuentes. This year, by the way, a European (not Benjamin) visited me and told me that the fate of the Aryan race rests on the shoulders of the Zoomers, and that we must appeal to them.

I think it’s true.

This site has been highly critical of the American racial right precisely because they don’t speak with the brutal frankness that Nick does. Alex Linder spoke like that, but it’s obvious that his exterminationism made him—as it makes me—a premature birth of a future that hasn’t yet materialized.

In contrast, Fuentes’s voice appeals to the current overtone window of white American Zoomers. That’s magnificent, and it’s something white nationalists have been unable to do because they’ve stagnated in mere essay writing without the power of oratory.

I recently reminded my visitors that Linder compared the “lite” racialists to middle-class little bourgeois eating crustless sandwiches, but yesterday I remembered that Linder added that they did so with their pinky fingers raised while holding their sandwiches at their meetings. That’s the diametrical opposite of what Nick does!

The Jews are panicking because if this kid’s voice becomes mainstream, it’s game over for them, and not just for their little wars for a Greater Israel in the Middle East. That’s why a couple of days ago Ben Shapiro did something unprecedented: a special program against Fuentes in which he didn’t even allow the commercials from his previous podcasts (see also Nick’s own hilarious response).

It’s true that Fuentes has gone so far as to say he wants to establish a Christian theocracy in the US where anti-Christians (like me, for example) wouldn’t be allowed to live. But that doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that the collective unconscious of white Americans, at least that of Nick’s countless followers, is moving in our direction for the first time since the fateful year of 1945!

It’s the same thing I detected with the Game of Thrones phenomenon, the most popular TV series. Since intuitive psychology is my forte, I see the first signs (with Nick, not with Game of Thrones) that the white collective unconscious might awaken after its long, long slumber.

So I’ll support Fuentes if he runs for president.

In the unlikely event that he does win (if there were attacks against Trump, we can already imagine what would happen), I’d probably start criticizing him once he’s inaugurated because, given his Christian ethics, he might not fulfil his campaign promises: crushing the left, something that can only be done by staging a coup—becoming a dictator—in order to open two or three Dachau-style concentration camps in the US: my dream come true (as I said recently, that’s why I visited Dachau outside Munich this very year: a solo pilgrimage!).

But for now, I support Nick Fuentes. I don’t care that he’s a Christian. Crossing the psychological Rubicon can only be done step by step, sometimes even baby steps. This is how the Aryan collective unconscious operates, seeking to rid itself of the Jewish collective unconscious that currently imprisons it.

And if we’re talking about racialism and being aware of the JQ, and that only the power of oratory can galvanize the masses, Nick could become what Hegel wrote about Napoleon even though, as a patriotic German, he disliked Napo: “I see the spirit of the world seated upon a horse.”

Categories
Carl Gustav Jung Neanderthalism Psychohistory Psychology

Collective unconscious

I’d like to comment on something I consider important. Although the Neanderthal became extinct thousands of years ago, long before the first civilisations, the myths about yetis, the abominable snowmen and sasquatch have a profound explanation. In Man and His Symbols, Carl Jung said:

The archetype in dream symbolism

By “history” I do not mean the fact that the mind builds itself up by conscious reference to the past through language and other cultural traditions. I am referring to the biological, prehistoric, and unconscious development of the mind in archaic man, whose psyche was still close to that of the animal… My views about the “archaic remnants,” which I call “archetypes” or “primordial images,” have been constantly criticized by people who lack a sufficient knowledge of the psychology of dreams and of mythology. [page 67]

The Swiss psychologist illustrated this with a case that impressed me:

A very important case came to me from a man who was himself a psychiatrist. One day he brought me a handwritten booklet he had received as a Christmas present from his 10-year-old daughter. It contained a whole series of dreams she had had when she was eight. They made up the weirdest series of dreams that I have ever seen, and I could well understand why the father was more than just puzzled by them. Though childlike, they were uncanny, and they contained images whose origin was wholly incomprehensible to the father. Here are the relevant motifs from the dreams. [page 69]

I’ll just mention a couple of dreams, and Jung’s brief interpretation that describes what we call “the collective unconscious”:

A drop of water is seen, as it appears when looked at through a microscope. The girl sees that the drop is full of tree branches. This portrays the origin of the world.

A small mouse is penetrated by worms, snakes, fishes, and human beings. Thus the mouse becomes human. This portrays the four stages of the origin of mankind…

Precisely a little mouse-like creature that survived the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs was our remote ancestor! Unfortunately, something happened to the little girl:

The father was convinced that the dreams were authentic, and I have no reason to doubt it. I knew the little girl myself, but this was before she gave her dreams to her father, so that I had no chance to ask her about them. She lived abroad and died of an infectious disease about a year after that Christmas. [page 70]

In my humble opinion, this can help to understand the myths about yetis and the abominable snowmen…

Categories
Psychology

Consumption, 11

In these years, my dreams started to play on me again and horrify me. Always from childhood, I had had regular nightmares, tossing and turning in the sheets and sobbing out […]

However, one particular recurring dream motif pushed to the surface around my 18th year (although I had nightmares involving it one and off rarely since at least the age of eight). By one point in my ‘home year’, it had come to me almost every time I slept. I would just be drifting off, and, suddenly, in black and white, and with internal sound, huge, spined, skeletal slugs would push into my vision out of the perceptual blackness, often coming from the right of my view, circling in front of me, all feelers and demonic faces of jutting bone and bloody teeth, but still basically giant black slugs beneath the macabre inventiveness. They were an almost infinite array of them […] tugging off chunks of skin […] engulfed in hellish molluscs, in a cold spray of my blood.

After what felt like long minutes of this, I would wake in horrified agony, leaping up out of bed screaming. I would often urinate in fear or otherwise scrabble back and forth […] Having the light on as I slept, as I had been accustomed to doing my whole life, made no tangible difference. Every single night, for days on end, I would be left run down and exhausted, terrified to return to sleep, a pronounced somniphobia and artificial insomnia developing in me […]

Over the years, I have tried many times to assuage this fear and shift the dreams by taking them out into the waking reality, drawing these devilish alien slugs, or designing them with computer art programs.

The abstract beginning of a slug dream

One of the slugs preparing to bite me

Bony slugs clambering into my vision

More demonic slugs emerge

A terrifying toothed slug gets up close to my face

Eight months after my return from Brookside, my nightmares started to get to me, no doubt aided by Dad’s continuing stress-inducing rows and an inability to relax at any moment when awake, conscious only that my door would be flung back, and Dad would storm into my room to find some new, insignificant, niggling excuse to wear me down.

Editor’s interpolated note: To escape the living nightmare, Benjamin attempted suicide at the age of eighteen.

I awoke partially in the ambulance and again on a hospital gurney, feeling the sharp scratch of a needle on my inner arm and hearing voices around me […] I had first been given a 5-pint emergency blood transfusion in the evening. […]

I had been taking both of my tablets [psychiatric meds - Ed.] for over a year now. Why was I feeling like this? I had long decided that that was a foolish question. These tablets were a sham. […]

Past all these faded symbolic worries, there was always Dad. I approached each new conversation with the hope of warmth and basic human respect, but that was rarely, if ever, the case. I realised one thing, at least. I loved him, but I was afraid of him. As for my mother […] at least she did not mock me.

Categories
Psychology So-called saints

Augustine, 6

BOOK IX: With his mother and friends he returns to his native Africa

‘…where I had offered you as a sacrifice, my old self’ Augustine writes in this chapter. He didn’t realise that his ‘new self’ was what psychologists today would call the false self: his relationship with his god, to whom he speaks in the second person singular, was a maternal introject—not his true self! But now imbued with his false self, the absorbing mother within him, he writes: ‘My heart was fire’ and ‘now I was disgusted by those who rebel against the Scriptures’: a preamble to the destruction of the works of Celsus and Porphyry ordered by Emperor Theodosius II.

After his ‘conversion’ Augustine wrote to Ambrose and signed up to be baptised, so he, his mother and Alypius, who would also convert to the cult of the Galileans (Emperor Julian’s term), returned to Milan.

We also brought Adeodatus, my natural son, born of sin. You had gifted him well. He was barely fifteen years old… His intelligence left me speechless.

A little later, Augustine devotes some interesting pages to how his grandparents had educated his mother, and how they had turned her into a puritan: through mistreatment. I was especially struck by these words, which are understandable if we imagine the African heat, where the family grew up: ‘Apart from the hours when they ate soberly with her parents, she wasn’t allowed to drink even water, even if she burned with thirst’. But I find it very strange that in his book Augustine didn’t tell anecdotes about his siblings. What did he want to hide from us? What we do know is that his mother had fulfilled her mission:

She said to me: ‘My son, as far as I am concerned, I no longer find pleasure in this life… There was only one reason why I wanted to stay a little longer in this life. I wanted to see you as a Catholic Christian before I died. My God has fulfilled this desire even more fully than I wished. I see you his servant, who despises the happiness of the earth. What am I doing here?’

I don’t remember my answer well. What I do remember is that, barely five days later—not many more—she fell into bed with fevers… At fifty-six years of age and thirty-three years of mine, that pious and holy woman was released from her body.

It is very significant for those of us who research mental disorders to read, a couple of pages later, a retrospective recollection when her mother was still alive:

And she also reminded me with emotional affection that she had never heard a harsh word or insult against her come out of my mouth.

But he would take out his pent-up rage with his theological pessimism, so opposite to that of Pelagius. The following year Adeodatus died (had the great doctor of the Church treated his son well?) and the narrative part of his Confessions ends. The rest of the next four chapters are mere homilies for new converts.

If we ignore them (books X to XIII of his Confessions), it seems very significant that Augustine ended his book with this great account of his mother. As my father told me, ‘Faith is suckled’. And as Monica told her son: ‘Where I was’, in her dream of the rule, ‘there you were’. The rest—the coming theology of Augustine—followed from there.

No wonder that the year Augustine died, 430 c.e., was the year in which the Dark Ages began. When I see the astronomical damage done to the white man by the Imperial Church, that Church of which Augustine was its great architect, I increasingly admire Nietzsche’s The Antichrist. Unlike Cervantes, Goethe, Dante, Shakespeare and Augustine himself, the German philosopher was a ‘man against his time’, a poet against the Christian Age. Now, thanks to new ways of refuting Christianity besides Nietzsche’s—Richard Carrier’s mythicism and the autobiographical genre I want to inaugurate (which precisely shows that faith is indeed a programme installed in us by our parents)—, the mental virus for the white man implanted by deranged theologians could, potentially, cease to infect us.

Giovanni di Balduccio, Tomb of St Augustine in Pavia, Italy.

Categories
Child abuse Psychology So-called saints

Augustine, 2

Augustine and his mother Monica (1846) by Ary Scheffer.

BOOK II: Spends a year at home before going to Carthage

I want to remember now my past uglinesses and the carnal dullness of my soul… In my adolescence I burned with desire to be filled with the baser things… Your anger against me was increasing… burning in the flames of my concupiscence… At least, I should have paid more attention to the voice of your clouds warning those who marry that you will suffer the tribulations of the flesh, but I forgive you [1 Cor 7:28].

This poor devil, elevated to the greatest Father of the Church for all Christendom (Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant), already believed that sex was sinful even within marriage! On the next page Augustine continues:

Made a eunuch for the kingdom of heaven, I would have sighed happily for your embraces [Mt 19:12]… I was lost at sixteen.

And here it is clear what it means to be a slave to the parental introject (in his case, a mental slave to his mother’s engulfing mind), and why I say that the idea of the deity is but a sublimation of the maternal (or paternal) image:

She wanted me—and I remember how insistently she asked me in secret—not to fornicate… The words, however, were yours, though I didn’t know it. I thought you were silent and that it was she who spoke. Therefore, I despised you, her son, the son of your servant [his mother] and your servant [Augustine], who didn’t cease to talk to me through her.

With such an ogre of a super-ego it is no wonder that further down on the same page he added about his nascent libidinous impulse:

I wallowed in my slime as if it were balm and precious ointment, and to mire me…

 

BOOK III: Going to Carthage

To love and be loved was the sweetest thing for me, especially if I got to enjoy the beloved’s body…

He was already nineteen years old and his pagan father, the only one who could have saved him from his wife’s abrasive behaviour, had died.

But you know very well, O light of my heart, that I had no knowledge of the counsel of your Apostle at that time.

In a sense he did, as we saw in the previous section. Augustine was unaware that the self is a structure, and that it can be programmed at the whim of one’s parents, either for good or for evil.

What only delighted, excited and kindled me was to love, seek and embrace strongly not this or that sect, but wisdom itself, whatever it might be. These were the words that excited and burned me, and the only thing that dampened my ardour was not to find the name of Christ there. For this name, Lord, the name of my Saviour and your Son, I drank it piously with my mother’s milk, and by your mercy I kept it engraved in the depths of my heart.

By the way, I will never forget my father’s words: ‘Faith is suckled!’ in a tone of assertive gravity. And here is how the unconscious of Augustine’s mother had already perceived that her son, although he would flirt for a short time with Manichaeism and other pagan sects, was at heart a good Christian:

My mother, your faithful servant, wept for me, shedding tears… She dreamt, in fact, that she was standing on a wooden ruler all sad and afflicted and that there was coming towards her a young man with a bright, cheerful and smiling face. He asked her the reason for her sadness and her daily tears, not because he didn’t know it, but because he had something to tell her, as in such visions. When she had answered that her tears were for the loss of my soul, he told her to take courage and to look carefully and be attentive, for where she was, there I was also [my emphasis]. She looked and saw me standing beside her on the same ruler.

Monica’s unconscious captured her son perfectly, as he was: a good Christian.

When she told me the dream and I tried to interpret it as a message that she shouldn’t despair of one day being as I was at present, she promptly and without hesitation replied: ‘No, he didn’t say “where he is, there you are”, but “where you are, there he is”.

This sharp reply of my mother’s impressed me very much… I was more impressed by this reply than by the dream itself.

But as Augustine had not yet devoted himself body and soul to being a champion of Constantine’s still young faith, his mother ‘returned to the charge with greater entreaties and more abundant tears’ as he confesses in his Confessions.

Monica was a clinical case of what some YouTubers call a narcissistic mother: a phallic, possessive mother without ego boundaries between her and her son, whom she treats as a mere egoic object (cf. my Letter to mom Medusa).

Categories
Psychiatry Psychology

Membrane

This is a postscript to what I said yesterday.

Mexican intellectuals, whether Jewish or white Iberian, are not the only narcissist intellectuals whose ‘semi-permeable membrane’ prevents them from the most elementary cognitive dissonance (only the media narrative enters their minds, not the bare facts about the Ukrainian war). Europe is also plagued by narcissistic pundits, who are now in a state of great bewilderment due to the start of negotiations between Putin and Trump. Since their membrane allows only positive feedback all they can do, as Alexander Mercouris said yesterday, is to fall into a level of ‘anger, rage, hysteria and panic’. After all, the Americans and the Russians, at last, begin to resume diplomatic relations! (this was never a war between Ukraine and Russia, but between the US-led NATO and Russia).

I reiterate what I said yesterday. Understanding psychosis in the most severe psychiatric cases, even if we are talking about schizophrenia, is fundamental to understanding the membrane of ‘normal’ people.